


Diatribe

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Arranged Marriage, Assassin Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Assassination Contracts, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic Description, M/M, Minor Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Porn With Plot, Protective Vesemir (The Witcher), Rich Jaskier | Dandelion, Shameless Smut, Smut, Socialite Jaskier, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Valdo Marx Being an Asshole, Witcher Contracts, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 12:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Contracts rarely meet with Vesemir in his office. Which is why when Geralt is summoned, he's surprised to see a young man sitting across from the Old Wolf. He's young and gleaming in silks and gold, belonging to the higher ranks of the continent's elite. But he's here with Vesemir, with one simple request: "Kill my husband."--Modern!AU w/ Assassin!Geralt and Socialite!Jaskier [PLEASE READ TAGS]
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Jaskier | Dandelion/Vesemir
Comments: 18
Kudos: 209





	Diatribe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crateofkate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crateofkate/gifts).



> Please read the tags before continuing. 
> 
> Thank you :)

Most contracts find their way on to Vesemir’s desk. Papers stacked high and messages and emails confined to his computer. The old wolf pours over each one, regarding their needs of the client and whether or not any of his pack would be fitting for the job. In the earlier days, they were less picky. Work was work; no matter what form it came in. The smallest of squabbles between warring factions in the city were their biggest clients, because someone was almost always trying to root out someone else, and the gold that inevitably followed was plentiful.

Vesemir’s dogs are _good_ at their work. Smaller lords became princes and kings of kingdoms, and no part of the boroughs were off-limits to them. Lambert prowled through the streets the most, uncaring of who saw or took note. The gold he gathered and hoarded gave him more freedom than he knew what to do with. He was going to spend it and lounge in his new-found wealth as best as he saw fit. Eskel was always the more reserved of them, but even he couldn’t resist replacing a few things in his wardrobe with silks and linens.

Their contracts come through paper or encrypted emails. It’s rare that someone asks for their particular skills directly; which is why Geralt blinks as he steps into Vesemir’s office, and sees a stranger sitting opposite the Old Wolf. He’s all but lounging back into his set, a leg folded over the other as his fingers drum against the firm wood of the armrest. A laugh is shared between the two of them; something fond and warm, and that almost trails off into nothing as Vesemir’s golden eyes catch his.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, sitting back into his chair, looking as put together as always.

Geralt stalks in the room, his steps measured and cautious; even if this _is_ his own home, and he’s known Vesemir ever since he’s been able to remember anything. But the man here is new, different. The air twinges with an unfamiliar scent. An aftershave or cologne that is beyond their pay grade, even after the years of work they’ve put behind them. The light streaming in through the tall lancet windows behind Vesemir’s desk catch the glint of gold and silver jewelling the man’s hands and wrists.

Even his clothes look crisper than theirs.

Geralt’s eyes narrow as he falls to the side of Vesemir’s desk: where the old wolf often calls him to heel. The man holding court with Vesemir stares right back at him; ocean blue eyes that glitter with caught light run over every stretch of him. The man lifts his chin. “Geralt,” he says slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “Vesemir says you’re exactly what I’m looking for.”

Geralt bristles. “That depends,” he grunts, folding his arms over his chest.

Vesemir clicks his tongue, as he’s wont of doing when his pups misbehave. He didn’t spend years training and honing their skills for them to be unruly with their manners. The old wolf’s mouth cracks open, a scolding perched on his tongue—

But it’s cut off at a light, breathless laugh out of the man. “The _brooding and grumpy_ type: I like it.” He turns to the old wolf, his smile not budging. If anything, Geralt sees that it grows. His brows knit together. “Familiar.”

A small blush of colour washes over Vesemir’s cheeks; but whatever he has to say on the man’s words stays on his tongue. He sets his joined hands on the table, ever the figurehead of their house. “I can assure you that whatever you want to happen will happen, as we’ve discussed.”

The man hums. His fingers still in their rhythmic drumming on the armrest. Blue eyes wash over Geralt again. “I suppose there’s no need to keep you in suspense then; you must have a slight inkling as to why I’m here.” He straightens slightly in his chair, but not by much. He lounges in this office like he’s always been here – like he’s _Lambert_ midway through one of Vesemir’s lectures or meeting debriefs, quickly losing interest in whatever the man is saying to him, and would rather know how many cracks are etched into the join of the walls and roof.

So Geralt lifts his shoulder. “You need someone dead?”

The man nods. “My husband,” he offers simply.

And it wouldn’t be the first time Geralt has been asked to deal with someone’s spouse. People who have grown tired or just want to turn their eyes on to someone new, without the messiness of divorce and the dull proceedings of it all. Some people prefer a quicker, more efficient approach.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. The man is familiar. Young, younger than him, with brown hair glinted with chestnut that catches the light. A lean frame, but Geralt learned not to judge anyone on how lithe they are. Some of his scars were earned from people he should have been more aware of.

He’s familiar, this one. And yet as Geralt flicks through his memories, of every mental rolodex of names he’s ever heard or come across, he’s drawing a blank.

Vesemir lifts his chin. “He’ll be dealt with,” he says, a certain softness lulling through his voice.

Geralt glances at the man, because he knows that although he was summoned here, he must have interrupted their conversation before he arrived. There will be things to discuss; where and when and how, but they can wait until later.

The man places his hand on his chest. “Thank you, Vesemir,” he says. “I knew I could count on you.”

* * *

“Julian Pankratz.”

Eskel’s voice is a sure thing, cracking through the gentle quiet that has settled over the living room for the night, each of them perched in their usual place. Eskel stalks further into the room, tossing his phone down on to Geralt’s lap. The screen is full of a zoomed-in picture of the man in question; his employer. _Julian_. The name doesn’t sit quite right on his tongue, but looking further down on the article Eskel has rooted out for him, he spots that the man is credited as _Jaskier_ instead.

And that name he does recognise.

He’s not out of place in these types of websites – gossiping reporters hinging off every whisper and rumour that they can latch on to and spin it into something else; something that can sell. The picture of Jaskier doesn’t do him any justice. With his hair ruffled and thick-rimmed sunglasses almost smothering most of his face, Geralt can’t recognise the man from Vesemir’s office at all.

Behind his shoulder, though, equally blinded and washed out with paparazzi camera flashes, must be his mark. Geralt’s eyes narrow. Wealth oozes out of the man. Geralt knows the type. People born into money have a certain aura around them, and this guy has it glowing out of every stretch of his skin.

Geralt sits back into his usual armchair, the fireplace already lit and roaring. Vesemir is away for the night, leaving his pups to the house. A bold decision in previous years; but an unspoken warning sits over them, even now. _Don’t fucking break anything_.

“I thought I recognised him,” Eskel continues, striding over to the couch and falling on to it, perching his feet on to Lambert’s lap. The red-haired man glowers at him, but makes no move to brush him off. In a fight, Eskel will always win. Lambert doesn’t even bother showing his teeth anymore.

Lambert does, though, send Geralt a quizzical look. “What does he want with you?”

Geralt hums, tossing Eskel’s phone back to him. “I’m killing his husband, apparently.”

“Valdo Marx?” Lambert whistles, turning his attention back to his book. “Good luck with that. The guy has more money spent on personal security than any of the politicians in Cintra.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replies, turning back lounging in the sure warmth of the hearth. A plan is already stitching itself together in his mind. It’s one that he’ll have to check with his new employer, but he’s sure Jaskier won’t entirely mind what fate befalls his husband.

Past would-be widows and widowers have been exact in their plans; where their spouses would meet a tragic end, when, and in front of whom just so they could acquire an alibi by being nowhere near their ill-fated spouses. Others have shrugged him off, waved him away with a dismissive hand and made him promise that no one will ever be able to find a body.

Geralt is meticulous with his work. He knows how to take a life and what to do with what remains. Vesemir spent years training him and honing a natural talent for doing what needs to be done for money. One doesn’t get to live very long in Kaedwen without the gold to do so; the waves might just drag you under.

And Jaskier seems to be lounging in enough gold and gems to keep him afloat for a while, possibly years. If his husband bothers him that much, if there is such a need and desire for Valdo Marx’s body to find itself at the bottom of the ocean or under a tree’s roots in the nearby forest, then he’s sure Jaskier Pankratz would pay handsomely for it.

* * *

Lambert, it turns out, is right. Valdo Marx has spent a sizeable nugget of his fortune making sure he’s covered by bodyguards and kept in someone’s eye line at all times.

 _Fuck_. He hates when Lambert is right. Geralt takes another measured sip of his coffee – black and without any sugar – while Eskel nurses a cordial and mint drink opposite him. To the people drifting by in the street, they blend in just fine. Tees and washed and worn jeans, sunglasses on and shielding them from the worst of the high-summer sun. The cafes have started putting their wire-metal tables and chairs on the pavements outside, and Geralt and Eskel blend into the health swell of people already gathered in front of the cafe’s front, chattering among themselves about whatever it is people around Cidaris do.

It’s a nice area they’ve found themselves in. People like Valdo Marx usually lead him out to nicer places; the villas and vineyards of Toussaint and the Riviera where Cintra meets Nazair. He can’t complain. Reconnaissance work goes by quicker when he’s enjoying himself. And he’ll admit that Nazair has excellent coffee.

Eskel makes a quiet noise, scrolling through his phone. A bored and sun-lounging man to anyone passing by, but Geralt knows that the man is pouring over every mention of Valdo Marx in any sort of published news outlet. He’s gathered quite the file, figuring out where the man likes to frequent and for how long. And each time a new place is brought up, Geralt has to frown. Jaskier is never with him. If Valdo is in Nazair, then Jaskier is in Kovir. If Valdo is in Redania, then Jaskier will simply wait in Cintra or Temeria until his husband has moved on somewhere else for him to return home.

It’s not too strange. The type of spouses who call on him to rid themselves of their marriage partners don’t harbour any love for them anymore. Love withered and died a long time before Geralt gets involved.

Eskel looks out on to the street. Cobblestone and neatly paved, cars driving passed. He thins his lips before taking another measured sip of his drink.

Geralt watches him through the dimmed frames of his sunglasses. “Found anything else?” he hums, knowing that his words are mostly washed away from prying ears by the chatter of people around them, and the traffic nearby.

Eskel slides his phone over to Geralt. Most of their information comes from reputable sources. It should alarm him; how quickly Eskel can pry into sensitive documents like birth and marriage certificates. Within minutes of meeting someone, Eskel can know where and when they were born, and the names of every person at their wedding however many years later.

Other information is gotten from any published media. When their clients are in the public eye, Geralt hates relying on the press, but sometimes their pictures can show a side of his clients and marks that he otherwise would have missed.

And he’s far too used to the world and the horrid people within it to be shocked by anything anymore. His breathing remains even and his expression neutral as he runs his eyes over the phone screen. gossip article published a few years ago. Sensationalist headlines and words flood the top.

**_A PLAGUE O’ BOTH HOUSES? – Marx and Pankratz Heirs Wed_ **

The year Jaskier’s life was signed away to someone. Geralt plucks Eskel’s phone from the table, letting himself quickly scroll through it. Each picture he finds – a mixture of paparazzi and professional wedding photos – look normal to the casual eye. But Geralt knows what to look for. The slight haze in blue eyes, the tightness of the corner of his lips. Jaskier’s wedding day was also his death sentence.

Neither of them looks particularly happy. Why Geralt’s services have been requested now, all these years later, he doesn’t know. Maybe Jaskier has had enough of him. For the Marx heir to suffer a tragic accident would be cleaner than a divorce which could strip him of everything.

Eskel clears his throat. “Next page,” he murmurs, draining the last of his drink and wincing at the sharpness left on his tongue. “It’s recent.”

From a few years to a few weeks ago. Geralt looks over the article. Jaskier’s same expressionless face, caught in a flurry of paparazzi shots after leaving some dazzling hotel in Cintra. Thick-rimmed sunglasses hide his eyes and the tops of his cheeks, but Geralt zooms in.

Just underneath the lip of his glasses, Geralt spots colour. Purple and yellowed skin. It’s tiny. Almost erased by the flash of lights from cameras; but he can see it. And his chest tightens.

Eskel shifts in his seat. “He’s moving,” he says. Geralt looks up, following his eye line across the street and spots Valdo Marx leaving another cafe, a small troupe of plain-clothed bodyguards surrounding him. At the sight of the man, a growl threatens to rumble up his throat.

Eskel fishes his wallet out, leaving a few gold pieces behind for their waitress. “So,” he hums, “how do you want to do it?”

He’s had ideas. Jaskier is remarkable okay with anything, it seemed. A few short messages sent back and forth, with the overbearing thought from the other man on the matter being that he doesn’t care at all, as long as Valdo Marx is dead and his tragic death cannot be traced back to him whatsoever. They’ve all been doing this job for too long to know how to conduct themselves. Burner phones that are snapped and trashed and remarked, keeping to themselves in public, watching marks from a distance. Keeping themselves absolutely unidentifiable.

The fork of scars claiming one of Eskel’s cheeks is mostly shrouded with a beard. Lambert has been going from short to long hair, beard to no beard, for years; and never quite looking the same from a glance.

The only marks who have ever seen Geralt’s white hair haven’t been around long enough to let that information slip. He’s careful to keep his hair pinned back, hidden under hats where he can.

Valdo disappears out of sight, bundled into an awaiting car and taken away. It doesn’t matter. Geralt will find him later; when he’s ready and poised to do what needs to be done.

He hands Eskel’s phone back to him. He fishes a handful of gold out of his pocket, adding it to Eskel’s pile for their waitress. “I need to speak with Vesemir.”

* * *

Vesemir has an innate ability to turn himself into smoke, especially when one of his pups is trying to root him out. The shared house isn’t sprawling, like most would expect with all the gold the old wolf hoards. He keeps their home simple. An old townhouse nestled in a quiet neighbourhood, out of the way of wandering eyes. His pups are free to live within it. They did when they were younger; when Vesemir didn’t like them straying too far away from his side. He could arm them with everything he could offer, knowledge and weapons alike, but the streets are still dangerous, and wolf pups had prices on their heads.

They all have houses and apartments dotted throughout the boroughs, places they could escape to if the need came for it. Geralt’s own apartment is nestled away in the backstreets of Kaedwen city, out of the glare of the main city lights and people. But he knows that Vesemir doesn’t stray too far away from his home, preferring to stay and prowl in familiar shadows, managing their business where he’s safest.

Geralt stalks along the hallways, peering into every room he can before he finds Vesemir in the backyard, tending to his gardens. Primly pruned bushes of roses and tulips, sharp colours against the green. Further down the garden, a simple greenhouse of vegetables for Eskel to cook with when he wants to.

The old wolf doesn’t stop tending to his roses, though Geralt is under no assumption that he doesn’t know that he’s here.

Geralt buries his hands into his pockets. There’s no point in trying to sneak up on the old man. “Julian Pankratz seemed very comfortable in your office,” he notes, keeping his eyes on Vesemir’s back.

To his credit, the old wolf doesn’t flinch. He snips away dying or dead leaves, catching them in his hand before turning to the next. Hands that have wielded guns and blades, that have stripped people of lives; now _gardening_. Everyone should have a hobby away from work.

Vesemir hums. “I like to make sure contracts are at ease. It’s never easy, asking to hire us for what we do.”

Geralt snorts. It’s sharp and cracks through the garden like lightning. “ _Bullshit_ ,” he chuckles, tilting his head. “You would never let a stranger into your house, let alone your office. So are you going to tell me how you know Julian Pankratz or will I have to ask him myself?”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt blinks. It takes him a moment for Vesemir’s sharp tone to sit with him. “What?”

The man turns, shears in one hand and dead leaves in another. Golden eyes set on to Geralt, burning straight through him. “His name is _Jaskier_. He prefers it.”

Geralt’s tongue swells in his mouth. He nods. _Okay_.

The breath that leaves the old wolf shakes slightly, but Geralt doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t let his brows knit together or the corners of his lips pinch and pull down. Vesemir turns back to his roses, reaching out with gentle fingers and inspecting each petal. They’re coming through nicely, the changeable weather considered. When he speaks, Vesemir’s voice barely barriers over the distant howl of wind. “His parents call him Julian. As do his sisters, and the rest of his relatives. And everyone who has ever known him as Alfred Pankratz’s son.” He takes a steadying breath. “But he’s Jaskier. He picked that name himself, _for_ himself, and I would like you to use it when you refer to him.”

Geralt can feel warmth start to colour his face. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten a scolding from his tutor. He nods again, and although Vesemir has his back to him and he can’t see his eldest pup, Vesemir knows when his words have reached and settled with him.

He works quietly for a moment, inspecting each rose he can before nodding: pleased with their growth and resilience against the sharp wind that tends to barrel through the boroughs at this time of year. “We knew each other, a long time ago. That is all you need to know on that front. Understood?”

Geralt’s nod is sharp.

Vesemir nods too, his lips thin and almost swallowed by his beard and moustache. Words swirl behind his eyes, trying to gather together. “He contacted me and I took his request on.” That seems to be the end of that. Vesemir puts dead leaves into the bed of the garden, before pulling his gloves off and making towards the house.

Geralt follows. There might not be an end to what he can lure out of Vesemir. He’ll make up some bullshit that he needs to know everything about the man to know what to do, even though Vesemir will call him on it and say he’s killed people over less. Vesemir puts his gloves and shears away, shuffling over to the kitchen sink and scratching any dirt from underneath his nails. The silence sitting over them is thick and almost suffocating.

“I saw a picture of him,” Geralt murmurs, just when the silence becomes a bit too much. Warmth blooms through him the second they step back inside, out of the reach of howling wind. Spring can be changeable with its weather. Geralt’s fingers fidget by his side. “He had a bruise under his eye.”

Vesemir, to his credit, doesn’t stop or turn to him. When he speaks, his voice is just as murmured as before. “He never wanted to be married to that snivelling rat,” Vesemir says, setting his hands on to the edge of the sink and staring back out on to the backyard. “He wanted to enjoy his youth. Who wouldn’t, with all the gold he had to his name?”

Geralt knows when to keep quiet; when his quietness is an invitation for the other man to keep talking.

Vesemir sighs, something aged and tired. “I met him a few years ago, at some forgettable bar in Redania. I was there to scout a mark and he wandered into my line of sight instead. Brazen little thing. Hung off of me for the night. He practically became my shadow.”

Vesemir turns, shaking his hands and drying them, before crossing his arms over his chest. It steadies the worst of the tremor shaking through his hands. “You keep this to yourself, boy, understood?” He waits for Geralt’s nod. “He was a casual fling. We both knew nothing would ever come of it. We both understood that. I had my work that he couldn’t get too close to, and he had boroughs to explore at his leisure. And then, one night, his father found out.”

Geralt’s tongue sours. His brows knit together.

Vesemir takes a breath. “Alfred Pankratz; vile, pompous creature. Always hammering on about the family and the importance of a name. As if he didn’t spend his own youth fucking his way from one end of the Continent to the other.” Vesemir’s voice rumbles out of his chest, his words turning his lip and snarled. “I didn’t hear from Jaskier for a few weeks. The first time I heard about his wedding was when the magazines and gossip websites did.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. It etches into his brow and turns his lips down. Whatever shrouds Vesemir’s expression now is almost haunted; a maelstrom of emotions that don’t last for too long. And within a blink of Geralt’s eyes, it’s gone. Vesemir sniffs. “I didn’t hear from him until now. He called me one night, in a voice I haven’t heard in a while. He was afraid. _Angry_. He explained to me what happened and I took his request on.” He settles Geralt with a look, golden eyes burrowing into his. “I would do anything for that man, understood? Whatever he wants, you do it. No questions asked.”

He’s been hired to kill people over less. It’s not a question of ethics or conscious anymore. If the gold is there, and the promise of a clean getaway is assured, they’ll do it. But looking at the old wolf now, at the red threatening to streak through his eyes at the mention of Jaskier Pankratz’s name—

He bows his head. “Of course, wolf.”

* * *

Jaskier, it turns out, doesn’t give much of a shit about anything anymore. Geralt blinked at the invitation, and mentally slapped himself in the face for being lured out like this. Jaskier might not care about whose eyes fall on him, but Geralt _has_ to care. It’s his job to. An assassin’s life is a short one if they’re not careful and keep to the shadows. Jaskier’s method of hiding, it seems, is in broad fucking daylight.

He smirks at the waitress wandering back to their table, setting their food in front of them with a curt nod. “Thank you, darling,” he hums, glancing over at Geralt sitting opposite him. “Would you like anything else? Are you sure you won’t drink with me?”

The waitress lingers, hands clasped in front of her and hanging off whatever is going to come out of Geralt’s lips. He shakes his head. Better to keep his senses clear. His eyes wander to the streets, to the people flooding the pavements and walking back to work from their lunches. There are still enough people packed into the outside seating area of the cafe to keep their conversation muffled with noise. Even still, Geralt can’t let his shoulders drop.

Jaskier turns to the waitress. “I think that’s all, then. Thank you!”

A faint colour warms her cheeks before she ducks away. He can’t blame her. Jaskier has a certain charm about him that lulls and lures most people.

There are photographers lingering nearby. He knows they’re there, as does Jaskier. Though, the other man doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. If they see and snap their shots of him, it’s fine. Geralt bristles at the thought of his face being plastered all over every gossip magazine and website—

A sharp snort of laughter breaks him from his watch. “Twitchy little thing, aren’t you?” He leans forward, a smile curled along his lip and his hand wandering towards Geralt. His voice is nothing more than a low lull. “If they see you here with me, then you have a lovely alibi to work with. They already know about my other... _friends_...why shouldn’t they see me out here with you?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “Because you’re advertising my face to the world,” he grits out. The grin spread across the man’s face only tightens his jaw. A famous assassin is one with a sword swinging over their head. Shadows are more useful than light.

“Exactly,” Jaskier hums, taking a measured sip of wine. He savours it on his tongue for a moment. The colour somewhat stains his lips. “If you’re here with me, on our sordid little getaway together, then who is there to account for my husband’s tragic accident?”

Geralt’s head tilts. _Their sordid little what—_

Jaskier turns to his lunch; creamy pasta with mushrooms and garlic, a full basket of bread rolls sitting between them, along with vials of rich and acrid balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Geralt’s lunch sits in front of him, ordered by Jaskier when he took too long to look at the menu, preferring to scope out their surroundings instead.

He watches the man expertly twirl pasta noodles around his fork, a fresh plume of roasted garlic lilting through the air. His gaze drifts just past Geralt’s shoulder, to where he knows a pack of paparazzi are stalking through the crowds, aiming for their next shot. “They already know my marriage is over. It has been for a while now. One would argue that it died as soon as we left the church. The only person who apparently doesn’t know that is Valdo.”

He isn’t wearing a ring. His hand is jewelled with others; silvers and gold that catch the swirling mix of colours in his eyes, but his ring finger is bare. There’s not even a faint tan line around it. A ring that hasn’t been worn that often.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I know what you’re job requires,” he says coolly. “I’m quite familiar with how much your people like to keep to the shadows.”

His chest tightens. Vesemir’s words have been sitting with him ever since he arrived in Redania, ever since Jaskier met with him and took him to a quaint restaurant along the cobbled streets of the main city.

Blue eyes watch him. They’ve been watching him ever since he first met Jaskier. A curiosity sits behind them. Intent eyes that try and pull him apart, figuring out what he’s thinking and what’s hidden behind his own golden hues. Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his throat, and it’s more effort than he’s willing to admit to get it to budge. “Vesemir told me you knew each other. Before.”

Another sip of wine, another forkful of expertly twirled pasta. A soft smile still lingers on the man’s lips – whether it’s one of his own, to be shared with Geralt, or one painted on for the curious and peering eyes nearby with their cameras, who knows. “I imagine he did,” Jaskier says. “He told you about my shotgun wedding?”

Geralt nods. There’s no use in lying to the man.

Jaskier hums. “A rather emboldened move by my father,” he says. “My family has it’s fortune, as do the Marx household. Valdo and I already knew of each other, and we are of a similar age, so why not join the two great Redanian houses?” Jaskier lifts his glass of wine in a mocked salute. “Keep the gold between our families, and the power. The happiness of their children be damned.”

Jaskier doesn’t look happy. None of his contracts rarely do. Happiness died a long time ago, before they’ve even thought about contacting him. The blue of the man’s eyes _is_ striking – a colour he’s seen in so few people, glinted with silvers and golds just like the rest of him, catching the light and reflecting it back. But, at the same time, those painted eyes are dulled. Shadows sit in the nooks of Jaskier’s face, gaunting him ever so slightly. His smile, although amused and carefree, isn’t one that glints his eyes or reaches his ears.

Jaskier hums, taking another sip of wine. “I don’t have to give you a motive, do I?” he murmurs, keeping their conversation between them. Even in the packed outside of the cafe, with people huddled around wrought iron tables and chairs, shielded from the high-summer sun by an awning, people rarely pay attention to each other; huddled in their groups and keeping to themselves. And always providing cover for assassins and their meetings.

Geralt shakes his head.

Jaskier’s eyes glint. “Though I suspect old Vesemir alluded to _something_ being wrong. Am I correct?”

“Soft old soul,” Jaskier murmurs, almost to himself. He huffs a breathless laugh before continuing. “My _dear_ husband didn’t care about my ‘friends’. I don’t care about his either. We’ve never touched each other. Even on our wedding night, he decided that one of his old friends from Oxenfurt was better company than me. He made his feelings about me evidently clear.”

Jaskier drains the last of his wine; the pinot not bothering him in the slightest. He sets his glass down, fingers perched and poised on the base and neck, wondering if he could order another. Geralt watches the decision curl around in the man’s mind; all before his hand slips away. “He didn’t care who’s bed I fell into, but he did care about keeping it quiet. Tabloids and reporters can see me having lunch with people, walking alongside them in the streets, but all they could ever have is gossip and rumours. We could shake off gossip and rumours: attending galas and parties together, side by side, hands brushing, even though I wanted to scrub them clean afterwards. It was fine, until someone talked,” his voice changes then, becoming thin and frail. “Someone talked, broke their NDA, and _he_ found out.”

Geralt’s tongue sours, poisoning his mouth. His stomach sinks as the other man’s words settle with him. Their words might be kept to themselves, but he makes his voice as quiet as he can, without it being washed away entirely by the chatter around them and the traffic in the streets. “He hit you.” He’s not sure if it’s meant to come out as a statement of a question; but Jaskier nods all the same. His lips press into a thin line and his jaw visible bulges, and he nods.

Vesemir’s words sit with him now, the intensity of his voice. Jaskier called him, anxious and angry. A firecracker like Jaskier Pankratz who contacted an infamous assassin he had shared a bed with all those years ago, and a simple request on his tongue.

 _Kill my husband_.

Geralt’s lip threatens to lift. He’s been hired to kill people over less; wives simply bored of being married, knowing that a divorce would be expensive and strip them of their gold.

But this— _this_ , he’ll do for free.

Jaskier watches him; eyes locked on to his and waiting for anything to show. The corner of Jaskier’s lip lifts into a small smile. “Method is entirely up to you, of course. I wouldn’t step on your expertise like that,” he says all too flippantly, as if they were discussing the weather or a stock meeting. “But if you could make sure no one finds what’s left of him, I’d be ever so grateful.”

Underneath the table, a bared ankle brushes his. A shiver threatens to tremor through him, but he bites down on his tongue. An enticing little minx—

Jaskier sets his cutlery down, lunch long done and forgotten about. “After all of this is done,” he leans forward, perching his chin on his joined hands, “and I find myself a lonely widower, I’m sure I’ll have a need for some protection. If what happened to my husband isn’t a tragic accident, if someone really is after him and me, I’m sure I’ll need capable people around me to keep me safe.”

The man’s eyes glint when a stray beam of sunlight catches them. “I know Vesemir has collected quite a pack of you.”

* * *

For all the money the man spent on protection, it’s alarmingly easy to lure him away from shore. Geralt slips the last of the ropes away from the boat, stalking back towards the helm, checking his equipment one last time before sailing them away.

Eskel’s efficiency in gathering information has to be commended and feared. Though, it doesn’t take a lot of prying to figure out that Valdo Marx holds many of the same hobbies and pastimes as most men in his position; with far too much gold to know what to do with, and time to lavish and lounge in it all.

He doesn’t bring anyone with him, thank the gods. Geralt has only enough patience to deal with Valdo Marx himself. His thin whiney voice pierces his ears every time the man drifts from the back of the boat to the helm, inquiring as to when they’ll finally be at their destination. “Soon enough, sir,” Geralt says as pleasantly as he can, which is something barely above a grunt. He doesn’t turn to look at the man, preferring to keep his eyes on the blue horizon.

Marx has an affinity for deep sea fishing, inherited from his father. However many sharks have lost their fins to the Marx family, sold on for even more gold that they don’t need, only for it to join the pile, he isn’t sure. But at least he can rectify nature – what’s taken should be given back.

A handful of guards accompanied him, keeping themselves to the back of the boat where plush seating looks out on to the ocean. Geralt keeps them in his sight. Men as built as him, if not slightly more so. Guns and blades stitched to their waists, hands never quite far away from reaching for one of them. He’ll have to rely on surprise, but he doubts any danger would follow Valdo Marx out this far from shore. Unless that specific danger drove him out here personally.

“I’m told you know where the prime spots are,” comes a thin, nasally voice. Even with fresh sea air washing into the helm, Geralt can still smell the acrid cologne drenched over Valdo’s skin, seeped into every pore of him. He glances up, catching sight of the man in a rear-facing mirror. He’s a bit shorter than Geralt, and lithe and lean.

Geralt nods, turning his eyes back on to the ocean. “The bulls and whites like to stay out in deep waters. They come through here on their way south for the summer.”

Valdo’s lips thin as he muses over Geralt’s words. He isn’t lying. Eskel plotted out a perfect course for him; where to go, how to get there, and how to get back into the harbour with a few less passengers. Geralt’s voice never shakes, even when he’s lying. But it’s better to tell as many truths as he can. Valdo nods. “Alright,” he holds up his hands. “We’ll see how good your knowledge is if we can yield some results. Though don’t expect any gold until we do.”

His eyes threaten to roll. People born into gold and gems really do sound the same after a while. “Of course, sir.”

Valdo leaves with nothing more than a wave of his hand. Geralt’s eyes zone in on it. _Right hand_. Vesemir was clear. He was clear in his account and clear in what Jaskier wanted him to do. Everything was left up to his discretion, but Jaskier wanted one thing specific.

Geralt’s chest tightens the further out they go. The instruments surround him count down every mile the boat travels out, further and further until the coast behind them disappears, and all that’s stretched around them is leagues and leagues of nothing but clear blue water.

The moment his radar and equipment click past twenty-two miles, his chest loosens slightly. International waters.

He lets the boat drift into a gentle stop. His ears twitch at the sound of Valdo barking orders; for rods to be readied and cast out of the boat, for each man who followed him out here to be accountable for a catch. The boat bobs with each wave, but he’s been on the water enough times to know how to tread the boat’s floors without stumbling. He looks out on to the back, watching Valdo perch a foot on the side of the boat and lean over the edge, inspecting the water.

Geralt’s lips thin. With their attentions elsewhere, he gathers his things. Eskel made sure the boat sat ready for him, docked in the harbour and fitted with everything he could need. He runs his fingers along the helm’s side, the touch plastic cool beneath his touch. His fingernails catch the edge, and the board gives easily when he tugs. Stashed in a hollowed-out nook, wrapped in cloth and kept safe, a silenced pistol and bullets. A collection of knives sit there too, glinting as stray beams of light from the overhead sun catches them. Geralt lets his fingers run over the pommels.

Crafted for him, to fit his hand. Blades that have served him well in the past, and will continue to do so in the years to come.

Valdo barks out a curt order to one of his guards, to see to the front of the boat and gather buckets of bait stacked up there. Geralt plucks up one of his blades, letting it sit comfortably in his hand. Vesemir's lessons whisper back to him. A knife and bade being an extension of one's arm; let it be comfortable, a part of yourself. Geralt has always been better with knives. Lambert is the one with an affinity for guns. Guns are quick. In the blink of an eye, a life is taken. Blades are for the souls he wants to linger; he won't gift Valdo Marx a quick death. He was instructed to make it linger. And that's exactly what he's going to do. 

* * *

The boat is big enough to deal with them separately. Wolves hunt best in shadows, and even with people around and the midday sun sitting above him, he knows how to pick a herd apart to deal with it effectively. Anyone who slips away from the safety of numbers for too long gets plucked away. Geralt is nothing but quick and efficient; slashes to throats and muffled shouts buried into his palm. He lets one body drop overbroad, blood seeping into and scenting the water. He knows there should be sharks nearby; ones on their yearly journey south who would benefit from a meal.

Geralt prowls and stalks, and the handful of guards that were lured out to deep waters with them are dealt with without much hassle. He lets the last body gently collapse on to the front deck, eyes glazing over as the last tendrils of life slip away. Blood soaks the deck, but it’s nothing he can’t clean up. He still has plenty of daylight left.

He might just send this boat back out to sea when he’s done; strip it bare of every trace of him or his presence here, and let it burn out on the open ocean. Eskel knows where he is, and armed with a long-ranged phone, Geralt could call on him.

Heavy rods perch against the sides of the boat, bait scattered into the water. Valdo keeps his eyes on the ocean ahead, trying to find any break in the waves of a fin, ignorant to the wolf stalking him. Teeth bared and claws sharpened, Geralt’s steps barely make a sound over the wash of waves against the hull of the boat.

The heavy tang of the man’s cologne stings his nose and the roof of his mouth as he draws close, almost flush against the man’s neck. He reaches around, setting a blade against the side of the man’s neck, just underneath his jaw. _Carotid artery: fatality within five to fifteen seconds._ Vesemir’s words are sure and firm echoing through his mind, even now all these years later.

He ignores the sting of the man’s cologne in his senses. “Knees,” Geralt growls, “ _now_.”

Valdo stiffens. His breath audibly catches in his throat. His hands tremble in the air, fingers twitching and threatening to curl into fists. The man is leaner than him, almost a head shorter. He could try and turn and fight back – and the blade kissing his throat would run across his skin and muscle, and his blood would stain the deck of the boat before he could face Geralt.

He does what he’s told, slowly dropping down on to his knees. Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of the man’s breath quickening. Surely he’s noticed where he is, and how no one is around now to help him.

“I-I have money,” Valdo stammers, words flooding out from his mouth as he scrambles to catch Geralt’s eye. “Lots of it—”

“—As do I,” Geralt hums, lifting a longer blade to the sun and watching how the light catches it. A smirk threatens to tug at his lips. Eskel has sharpened them. Geralt eventually turns to the man, watching an already small individual somehow make himself smaller by cowering into himself. His hand, and blade clasped in it, fall to his side. “Though no amount of gold could ever be enough to convince me to let you live for another second.”

A tight, choked sound lurches out of Valdo’s throat. All men faced with their mortality tend to react the same; the familiar panic whitening their eyes, the scramble for forgiveness and the bargains that flood out of their throats in some hope that it could save them. Geralt has been in this line of work for too long to be plied by anything Valdo could ever try and say to him now. Instead, he looks to the man’s hands trembling mid-air, held up as if Geralt would still spare him. “Right hand, was it?”

Panicked eyes catch his. “W-What?”

Geralt takes a measured breath. “You struck Jaskier Pankratz with your right hand. Yes or no.” Not that it matters. Not that he doesn’t already know. But he stares at Valdo all the same, allowing rage and anger and spite to curdle his blood and seethe through his eyes.

The man shrinks into himself, his brows knitting and unfurling, trying to remember back to that particular nights; when he waited for Jaskier to return from wherever it was he went, when he was armed with vile words about pride and image. Valdo’s mouth cracks open, stuttered words clawing up his throat. “Yes, yes, I did, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did that. He hired you, didn’t he? I—I, let me talk to him. He can have whatever he wants; money, shares, land, anything—”

“You’re not sorry,” Geralt rumbles, letting the tip of his blade catch the underside of Valdo’s chin, stalling the man’s words in his throat as he lifts and cranes his neck, watching his skin bead with sweat – either from fear or the high mid-summer sun, or both. “You’re sorry that you were caught, that you’re facing the consequences of your actions.”

The sea is terribly calm around them, lapping against the hull of the boat and shrouding the worst of the wheeze of Valdo’s breaths as he tries to keep them level and calm. Geralt’s lips thin. _Right hand_. He brought the rest of his knives with him; Eskel having packed everything he could ever need. His pistol still sits at his side, holstered and loaded with enough bullets to be a safe fallback plan.

Knives are better suited to his hand. He plucks a cleaver from his arsenal; sharpened and glinting in the midday sun. He darts out, quicker than lightning, and grabs a handful of Valdo’s shirt at his shoulder, hauling him with him every stalked step he takes to the edge of the boat.

Valdo scrambles, trying to jerk out of his grasp. He doesn’t get very far. Geralt is bigger and stronger, and his grip on the man’s shirt is white-knuckled and unmoving. Valdo grunts as he’s thrown against the edge, his torso hanging over slightly as both arms dart out to catch and steady himself.

Geralt catches the man’s reflection in the water, just before he presses his closed fist further into the man’s shoulder, keeping him pinned, before hacking the cleaver down on to the man’s wrist.

The cut is clean, with the blade burying itself into the hardened plastic of the boat’s edge. And blood pours out as Valdo’s right hand drops into the ocean.

There’s a scream – a guttural sound that rips out of the man’s throat, a second too late as he turns to look at the sharp line of a cleaver blade interrupting the line of his arm and hand. When the sound wrenches itself out of Valdo’s throat, Geralt lets him go. He yanks the blade back from the boat’s edge, crimson drops splattering on to the floor as he sets it aside. It’s done its job. He plucks a narrower blade from its case, letting the handle sit comfortably in his palm. 

Valdo collapses. The man huddles into himself, back pressed flush against the edge of the boat as he cradles his arm to him. He tries, gods bless him, to grab fabric from the front of his shirt and press it to the open wound.

No matter. The water had already turned wisps of crimson as his severed hand bobs along with each wave. 

He turns back to the man. He shakes and trembles and all colour from his skin drains with every plume of blood that gathers underneath him, staining his skin and clothes. But fading copper eyes meet his, glaring and spiteful. The eyes he saw in the pictures Eskel gathered, the eyes of the man he knows Valdo really is. “He has you wrapped around his finger too, hasn’t he?” Words chatter out of him as shock shakes through his body. His skin is almost as white as the hardened plastic he’s backed up against, shadows darkening underneath his eyes, and teeth clattering together. A breathless laugh punches out of him. “Another man added to his harem? Spiteful little creature. Nothing better than a downtown whore. No one would have dared touch him if they knew how many beds he fell into—”

Geralt lashes out before he can catch himself. Warm blood coats his fingers and hand as the hilt of his blade meets the man’s lower torso, the blade buried into a space in his abdomen where Geralt knows he hasn’t hit anything major. Past the spleen and intestines and liver. But just enough pain to strip him of his words and the rest of his breath. Valdo’s face withers in pain, and he would crumple into himself if Geralt wasn’t in the way, holding him up, making him _look_ at his executioner.

He pulls the blade out, a fresh plume of crimson blood spurting out of the wound and pooling against Valdo’s hip. He slackens, slouching against the side of the boat. The haze in his eyes grows thicker, robbing him of every gleam of copper and light.

Gun, bullets, blades, and one last thing Eskel provided him with. Geralt hauls the weights to his side, the hooks already knotted firmly in thick rope. He sets them on to the sides of the boat, perched for a moment while he gathers the free ends of the rope.

Valdo doesn’t put up much of a fight as Geralt catches his heels. He loops the ropes around and around, looping and pulling at the knots, making sure they’re firm and biting into the man’s skin. He wants to keep his promise to Jaskier – nothing of Valdo Marx will ever be found. His eyes wander to the ocean behind the quivering body, starting to slump against him. Dark winding shadows slink up towards the boat, enticed in by the scent of blood. The first breach of a pointed fin against the waves loosens the last tension in his chest.

He grabs a firm hold of Valdo’s shirt, making sure the man can look at him and see, and _listen_. “You’re going to die out here,” Geralt rumbles, lip threatening to lift. “And no one will ever know what happened to you. No one will come and find you; because nothing will be left. And eventually, when some time has passed, people will forget your name too. Valdo Marx will be stripped from this world, body and name.”

He hauls the man up, perching him on to the edge of the boat. Behind him, more fins breach, with pointed snouts of sharks poking through the waves as they fight among themselves for a single floating hand. Shreds of it remain, with blood tinting the water around it. Dull black eyes peer up at him through the waves, and the corners of Geralt’s lip threaten to twitch into a smile.

With the one hand he has left, blood-stained and numbed as shock starts to wane and wash over him, Valdo tries to push his grip away, to free himself. Geralt’s knuckles turn white, bringing him forward, ever so slightly, to breathe a few last words into his ear.

“I’ll make sure Jaskier knows what happened here,” he rumbles. “After all, this was all for him.”

He waits for his words to settle with the man. It takes a moment, with what's left of his blood struggling to carry them to his brain. But once they do, once Valdo's brows knit and his lips crack open, a question or plea perched on his tongue, Geralt lets go. 

* * *

The mid-summer sun isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, it seems. Geralt squints at it, even through his sunglasses, as he stalks down towards the beach. He doesn’t bother checking the sandstone villa, knowing that the person he’s looking for will be making the most of the sun while he can. The villa leads out on to a beach – private, of course. Valdo Marx never liked anyone encroaching on his privacy. And it’s something Jaskier lavishes in; especially now.

A stretch of white beach, a sun perched high overhead, and the gentle lap of the sea against the shoreline. A breeze tumbles in from the water, carrying with it the slight tang of salt that stings his nose. Distantly, he can hear seabirds calling out to each other.

Among the white sands is a parasol, perched and shielding a stretched out and lounging Jaskier from the worst of the sun’s rays. Though he still enjoys the warmth. It’s a far cry away from any place further north; where the sun may be out and shining, but winds are far more cruel and biting.

He’s been here for a while, letting his skin tan and salt with sea breezes, and his mind wander on other things. Geralt’s lips thin at the sight of Eskel perched near the man, torso noticeably bare and gleaming with seawater. Bright blonde hair drips water on to his shoulders, and no number of times he runs his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it back, will keep it out of his eyes.

He’s close enough to hear Jaskier laugh softly. “You should let me braid it,” he murmurs, sun-soft and pliant. He stretches, long lithe lines on display before he rolls on to his side, perching his head on a crooked arm. “There are some lovely flowers nearby. I’m sure you’d look ravishing in them.”

Eskel snorts. “You put flowers in my hair, little bird, and I’ll destroy that new couch of yours.”

There’s a faint gasp, a hand on Jaskier’s chest. “Brute,” he grumbles. Whatever frown tries to knit his brows together smoothes away completely at the sight of Geralt striding towards them.

Geralt blinks. Even for having his own beach to do with as he pleases, Geralt is surprised to find the man in clothes. They’re light, reflective of the weather, and barely cling to him. A light linen button-up shirt hangs from one shoulder, revealing his other and his chest already glistening with lotion. His gaze threatens to blink over to Eskel, but he knows not to pry. He can smell the sweet smell of lotion still embedded in the man’s hands.

Jaskier’s legs stretch out underneath the parasol, light and _short_ shorts ridden up around his waist, clinging to the curve of his hips and waist, and showing everything. Geralt’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth. Casual clothes, even though he expected the other man to be in nothing at all; splayed out underneath the sun while his life righted itself.

But as Geralt runs his eyes over the man again, he notices. Everything is in black.

Geralt arches an eyebrow.

A smile curls along Jaskier’s lips – bitten-soft and plump and flushed with colour. Eskel’s look a shade similar, but he turns away from Geralt’s sight, rolling on to his stomach and perching his chin on his arms. “I’m mourning,” Jaskier offers simply, reaching out to pluck a bright orange drink from a nearby table. Adorned with a candied lime wedge and a sprig of fresh mint, Jaskier takes a measured sip. He hums. “I was recently informed that my husband has been lost at sea.”

The sun-lounging body beside him huffs a short laugh. “However will you cope,” Eskel murmurs.

Jaskier has the gall to look somewhat affronted, setting a hand on to his bare chest. “I’ll have you know that I’m quite worried about the welfare of my husband,” he tries, but a smile eventually worms on to his face. “I’ve been rendered a poor widower in my youth. With two family fortunes to manage.”

Geralt hums. “You poor thing.”

There’s a glint in Jaskier’s eye. He sips his drink, lounging back along the sand and under shade. Even for the few days that he’s been here, his skin has already gained a healthy glow. The dark circles that had settled underneath his eyes, that had turned his face gaunt and made him appear years older than he actually is, it’s all gone. The moment Valdo Marx’s body was dragged beneath the waves, the last tendrils attached to Jaskier snapped.

Jaskier plucks the candied lime piece from his glass, chewing on it idly as the lapping rush of waves fills the air. He hums. “I suppose you would like to collect your payment?” he asks. Before Geralt can nod, or even blink, Jaskier sits up, draining the last of his drink. He hums as it sits on his tongue for a moment, before setting the glass aside.

The man reaches out, lightly batting a hand on to Eskel’s bare shoulder; rousing him from a sun-warm doze. “Be a dear and make sure we aren’t disturbed,” he murmurs, dragging himself up on to his feet. Eskel barely moves, but does huff a short breath into his arms. The beach is deserted, and there’s no sign of anyone else for miles – until the small sea-side town nestled against the cliffs.

Geralt looks at the spread underneath the parasol; quite a nesting nook they’ve made for themselves given the nice weather. A bottle of lotion, empty glasses with candied fruits and colourful paper umbrellas, a small stack of Eskel’s favourite books. Geralt’s lip thin.

“Come Geralt,” Jaskier tosses over his shoulder, already striding towards the villa. Barefoot and with a linen shirt crawling down his shoulder and arm with every step. Geralt’s eyes follow him, watching the way the sunlight catches his skin. For the first time, he spots a faint sprinkle of freckles over the man’s shoulders and down along his spine.

His fingers curl by his side. Before Jaskier has a chance to get too far away from him, Geralt follows.

The villa is light and airy; open-planned for light to stretch through rooms and air to tumble through. The sandstone has been worn down over the years. Geralt looks at the facade, knowing that it would have been crisper and more ornate in years past; before tropic storms roll in and erode away the stone.

Jaskier seems more carefree now. A shroud pulled over himself of someone who did what he liked is gone – now it’s engrained into his bones. He’s free. He walks around the villa like the owner of it – because he is now, technically – letting his shirt fall from his shoulders and drop to the worn wooden floor. Geralt eyes it as he passes, and when he looks up, his lips thin at Jaskier glancing at him from over his shoulder.

A small smile dusts the man’s lips. A breathless laugh tumbles out of him as he leads them further into the house. An office is tucked away upstairs; neatly organised, packed with books and ledgers, a heavy wooden desk that looks out on to a small balcony. The doors are open, letting fresh sea air flow in. Jaskier pads over to the desk, humming as his fingers trail over it.

Geralt’s steps falter. The pictures hanging in the room all have the image of the same man – Valdo. Jaskier fishes something from one of the desk’s drawers. “Don’t worry,” he says lightly, opening a felt bag and checking the contents. “I’ll have them removed soon. I’m thinking of a bonfire on the beach; barbeque, beers. Eskel tells me he’s an excellent cook.”

Geralt hums. He can imagine Jaskier and Eskel talked about all sorts of things while the other man hid away here. He needed protection, of course. Someone seemed to be after his poor husband, and now that he’s missing, lost to sea, who is to say someone wasn’t involved? That the sole inheritor of the Pankratz-Marx combined fortune isn’t at risk, and needs to be protected at all times?

Jaskier ties the bag, letting it rustle in his hand as he holds it out to Geralt. “Gold,” he offers simply, a knowing glint in his eye that hasn’t left since the beach.

Geralt takes the bag, nimble fingers unlacing the cords and checking the contents for himself. And it’s...His breath almost stops. Gold comes in droves these days with contracts, but this is a lot; for a job that he could have done for free. There are people who have simply grown tired of their spouses, and then there are people who call on him to get out of something. And he does the latter jobs no questions asked, for no fee whatsoever.

In the corner of his eye, Geralt watches the other man perch on the heavy oak desk, bare legs hooked and swinging as he leans over, craning his head. “It’s all there,” he assures, voice nothing more than a gentle lull. Geralt arches an eyebrow at him. “I would never swindle you out of what you’re owed. You’ve done me a great service, Geralt. I would see you properly paid for it.”

His throat almost closes. The glint in the man’s eye, the way the lines of his body stretch out in front of him, the fact that there is _very little_ covering him now—

Geralt clears his throat. “This is more than enough,” he rasps, holding up the bag.

Jaskier’s eyes fall to it, regarding it for a moment. “Really?” he asks, genuine surprise tinting his voice. He tilts his head, swooped hair beginning to fall into his eyes. Jaskier’s lips thin before he clicks his tongue. “Well, that’s a pity.”

Jaskier doesn’t move from his perch. Blue eyes linger on him for a while, watching as Geralt sets the bag on to the desk. The gold slumps, almost forgotten about entirely when he looks away from it, meeting Jaskier’s gaze. His fingers fidget by his side. “Would you rather give me more?” he asks, words almost sticking in his throat. He’s a bold one, this _little bird_ – as Eskel called him. A songbird with a lovely voice and pretty eyes.

The corners of Jaskier’s lips curl. “I’d see you handsomely rewarded,” he lulls, letting his head tilt and the long line of his neck show. Jaskier reaches out, nimble and clever fingers catching some of Geralt’s shirt, feeling the light fabric and tugging at it – tugging him closer.

Jaskier’s legs move, splaying with just enough space for Geralt to stand, lured close by everything about the other man. Whether it’s his voice singing him closer, or his eyes or bitten-plump lips pressing together and parting, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s all of it; he can’t stop looking at Jaskier. He couldn’t drift away from him even if he tried.

“What would you like, Geralt?” Jaskier lulls, hands setting against the swell of Geralt’s chest. His fingers splay, feeling the rise of his chest and the beat of his heart. Number fingers pluck at the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them and parting the lapels, letting his hands scope and map plains of muscle and warm skin. Jaskier leans forward slightly, soft lips just inches from Geralt’s.

He’s a dangerous thing. Soft lulling words that lure him close and eyes that threaten to drown him if he wades in too far. Jaskier lifts his chin, lips barely brushing Geralt’s. The ghost of a touch wisps over them—

Geralt leans forward, catching Jaskier’s lips with his and revelling in the moan shaking up the man’s throat. The hand catching his shirt tightens, tugging him closer.

Jaskier’s lips are soft against his. Sweet citrus of his earlier drink lingers on his lips and tongue, and Geralt draws the taste to him, revelling in it as their kiss deepens. His shirt is stripped from him. The moment his arms are free from it, it’s forgotten about; even before it falls to his feet. Jaskier’s legs part around him, ankles joined and settled by the small of his back, pulling him in. Fingers catch the belt of his jeans, nimbly undoing it and tugging it off.

Jaskier is a flood on his senses, barrelling over everything until all he can feel and smell and see is _him_. Geralt manages to part their lips, pulling in a sharp breath, before he trails short kisses along his cheek and behind his ear. A shiver trembles through Jaskier, his breath catching in his throat. The fingers working Geralt’s jeans open don’t stop. The second there’s enough room, Jaskier’s hand dips down inside. A groan spills out of him as Jaskier’s fingers curl around his cock, already hardening and twitching in the man’s grasp.

An answering noise trembles out of Jaskier. He tilts his head, letting the line of his neck show. Geralt’s lips trail along it. “Gods,” he moans, stroking Geralt to hardness, feeling the weight of him in his hand. It doesn’t take a lot of Jaskier’s touch to harden him. The man is intoxicating; soft skin and plump lips, hooded eyes and sure fingers. Geralt’s teeth graze along the bottom of his neck, rasping along the join to his shoulder.

Jaskier is sun warm, and through the sweet scent of lotion soaked into his skin, there’s something else. Geralt murmurs against his skin. “Widowed not even for a day and you’ve started collecting your own personal harem; is that it?”

Jaskier hums. A smirk curls through his words. “If you want to look at it like that,” he lulls, not quite disagreeing. He catches one of Geralt’s hands, bringing it to his bare waist. He’s lean, but there’s power there underneath Geralt’s fingers and palm. Jaskier sighs, letting his head fall back as Geralt maps every stretch of muscle and skin he can find. “I imagine that’s what it would look like to certain people.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. “But you don’t give a fuck?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier lilts, breath thinning as Geralt’s hands find the buttons of his shorts, deftly undoing them. It takes a bit of manoeuvring – and Geralt tries not to let too much heat bloom in his core at the sight of Jaskier’s eyes widening, just as he catches the man’s thighs and hoists him up slightly, pulling the shorts down his thighs and legs. Geralt’s jeans and underwear join it. All kicked to the floor, instantly forgotten about like the rest of their clothes.

Of course the other man is bare underneath his shorts. He was hardly clothed to begin with. “Absolute hedonist,” Geralt murmurs against his neck, perching him on the edge of the desk and hooking the man’s legs around his hips. “I was expecting to see you bent over something.”

The hand around his cock quickens. “If you arrived an hour earlier, you would have,” Jaskier rasps. Geralt’s hands wander, emboldened. Lips and teeth follow, trailing down the man’s chest and abdomen. Jaskier’s hand falls away from him, and he catches his whine between his teeth. He’ll get back to that. He has all the time in the world. 

Jaskier’s legs part, spread for him. The man’s cock, full and bobbing. His breath catches as Geralt’s lips linger at the base, his fingers curling around it and stroking. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches the man’s thighs quiver; hips threatening to lift from the desk.

Geralt settles a firm hand on to the arch of Jaskier’s hip, keeping him still, as he sets his lips to the head of the man’s cock. Jaskier’s moan coils through his core as he sinks down on to Jaskier. The man’s scent fills his nose, coating the roof of his mouth and threatening to smother him. Jaskier is a heavy weight in his mouth, lips stretched around him. His hand covers what he can’t reach.

Sure fingers curl through his hair, knotting and holding as Geralt stays still for a moment, letting the first plume of pleasure shake through the other man before continuing. He can’t see Jaskier, but he can imagine what he looks like; flushed cheeks and plump lips stretched around moans and attempts at Geralt’s name. One hand set further back on to the desk, behind him, just to keep him supported.

The hardwood floors bite into his knees, but he doesn’t care at all. When Jaskier’s grip on him loosens, he lets his head bob and move. A choked groan sounds above him. “ _Fuck_ , Geralt,” Jaskier grunts, tightening his grip on his hair again – not pulling or guiding, but just holding. “Gods, that’s it. Good. You take me so well, darling—”

Geralt’s hand wanders. One keeps to the man’s hip, catching the arch of his bone and stilling him on the desk. His other hand trails down his quivering thigh, fingers dusting along his skin and the lean muscle there, until he cups Jaskier’s balls, rolling them in his hand for a moment. Breathless moans and Geralt’s name wisp above him. The fingers in his hair tighten until it pulls at his scalp. His own cock twitches, and he sucks Jaskier down even further.

His fingers move again, trailing down until they brush the man’s furled hole. Jaskier’s not wet, but there is still enough give for the tip of one of Geralt’s fingers to press inside. Jaskier’s abdomen sinks as another moan is pulled from his throat. If he had arrived at the villa an hour earlier, he would have seen Jaskier bent over something by somebody. Eskel. A plume of pleasure coils through him at the thought of it. Images blink in front of him; Jaskier over the back of a couch – a _new_ one, he remembers Eskel mentioning – with the other man covering him. If he was even later, would they still be on the beach, shielded from the worst of the midday sun, but stretched out on the sand and lost in each other?

 _Hedonistic little thing_.

He pulls away, the man’s cock bobbing in front of him as he stands. Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes hazed, on the right side of pleasure-drunk. “Do you have anything?” Geralt rumbles, his hands finding their way to the man’s hip. His thumbs brush over the arches of his bones, soothing the worst shivers that shake through him.

Jaskier’s lips part, thick breaths taken to try and settle him. “Top drawer,” he murmurs, nodding to the other side of the desk. He reaches up, coiling his arms around Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt nods. He hooks his hands underneath Jaskier, making sure the man’s legs are firm around his waist, before he hoists him up. Jaskier almost yelps, the noise caught just as it perches on his lips. What tumbles out instead is a laugh, something breathless and light and shakes through the man’s chest.

He weighs nothing. Geralt stalks over to the other side of the desk, freeing one hand to pry a drawer open and rummage inside. When his fingers curl around the familiar plastic neck of a bottle of lube, he arches an eyebrow at the man in his arms.

Jaskier has the gall to look innocent. “I’ve had to bide my time with doing something, Geralt,” he reasons, a smile curling the corner of his lips. “Or someone. Eskel has been ever so attentive.”

A growl threatens to rumble up Geralt’s throat. “I’m sure he has.”

“Don’t be jealous,” Jaskier admonishes, lightly batting his shoulder.

Geralt takes them outside, stalking into the balcony and to the smooth wooden railing. The midday sun sears their skin the further out of the shade they go, but he doesn’t give a shit. Neither does Jaskier, it seems, if the broad smirk is anything to go by.

Geralt sets him on to the ground, and he watches as Jaskier turns, sending him a smirk over his shoulder. Long lithe lines stretch out in front of him as Jaskier bends over, arms resting over the railing and ass pushed back. Geralt rumbles, reaching out and massaging the globes. His thumb catches Jaskier’s hole, pressing against it, and a shiver shakes up his spine.

He palms some lube into his hand, setting the bottle away for a moment, before pressing the tip of one finger against Jaskier. The man hums, rolling his hips back. A tempting little thing; soft skin and doe-eyes, pretty sounds lured from his throat like the lovely little songbird he is.

One of his fingers presses in, just up to his knuckle, and he watches the man’s spine curve and bow as he tries to push back. He catches Jaskier’s hip, keeping him still. He’s warm and gives easily around Geralt’s slickened finger. He slips another one in beside with, testing the give. He’s tightened up slightly, in the hour or so since Eskel had him last, but Jaskier’s body slackens against the rail. “Stay here with me, for a while anyway,” he breathes, resting his head in his arms. “You’ve done a great service to me, and I want to repay you in any way that I can.”

Geralt lets himself look at the man’s back; at the soft bend of his spine as he arches, pushing his hips and ass back on to Geralt’s hand. “Be careful, little bird,” Geralt murmurs. “I might not leave, with promises like that offered.”

Jaskier moans as Geralt plies him with his fingers, stretching and delving into him and brushing that spot inside of him that has one hand catching the railing, knuckles whitening. Jaskier’s lips part as he whines. “I might not _let_ you leave.”

Not the worst way he’s been ensnared. If he were to be jailed to this stretch of beach for the rest of his days, he wouldn’t complain. A light laugh shakes through Jaskier until it trails off into another moan. “We’ll have a fabulous time. You have so much to catch up on,” he grins, resting his head on his crossed arms and rolling his hips back. “ _Fuck_. If you’re as good as sweet Eskel— _gods_ , there, yes, right there—”

A growl claws its way up Geralt’s throat. His skin is scalding and his core tightens. Eskel’s scent is all over the man already. His fingers and hands have mapped every line of him, and Jaskier has already lured him close enough to fuck. Even with a few curls of his fingers, Jaskier is stretched and begging again. “Get in me,” he gasps, catching the rail of the balcony and pushing himself up. “ _Please_ , Geralt. Come on, show me—”

Jaskier’s lulling words break off into a whine as Geralt’s fingers leave him. He clenches around nothing, stretched and wet and _empty_. Geralt sets a hand on to the small of his back. “ _Wait_ , little bird,” he says, the arch of his lip threatening to lift. He slicks himself with what’s left on his hand, biting back a groan as he sets the head of his cock against Jaskier and pushes in.

The distant rush of the sea against the beach, trilling of birds nearby; it all slips away as he’s consumed in a wet tight heat. It steals the last of Geralt’s breath as he bows over Jaskier, arm curling around the man’s chest and gathering him against him. His hand joins Jaskier’s on the railing, the metal biting into his palm as he wills himself to calm.

Something that would be easier to do if not for bold hips pressing back against him, rolling against his and working his cock deeper into Jaskier’s heat. “ _Fuck_ , yes,” Jaskier groans, lips stretched and curled into a smile. His eyelids flicker shut, letting pleasure wash over him for a second. One hand parts with the railing, catching the firm arm across his middle. “ _Gods_. Are you all ridiculously big? Fuck, I can feel you everywhere.”

The first roll of Geralt’s hips has them both moaning. Geralt buries his into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck, wetting his skin with hot wet breaths as he revels in the feeling surrounding him. “You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” he murmurs, letting his teeth graze against the cord of Jaskier’s neck. The man trembles in his arms, clenching around him. “You’ve let three assassins from the same house fuck you now. I’m sure Lambert would love to have a turn at this ass, when we tell him how tight and wet it is for cock.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier gasps. His fingers by his arm curl and nails dig into skin and muscle.

The heat around him tightens again. Geralt’s chuckle is lost against Jaskier’s neck. “If only the world knew; Jaskier Pankratz hiding away in his tropical villa, passed between his personal killers like a toy.”

Geralt’s hips quicken, fucking into the man with sure and sharp thrusts that hammer his prostate. It steals what’s left of his breath, and what manages to tumble out of his lips are choked groans and swears.

Images blink in front of him; of Jaskier speared between them all, wet and open and moaning. Geralt’s blood sparks. He sets his lips against the man’s ear, letting his words wash over him. “I’m sure Vesemir would love to see you again,” he murmurs, groaning when Jaskier grows tight and trembling around him. He’s close, barrelling towards the edge. He lets one hand travel down to the man’s cock, fingers curling around it and tugging. A choked gasp fights out of Jaskier’s throat. “You can do whatever you like now; your husband, or whatever is left of him, is buried at the bottom of the ocean. Would you like to see him again too? Invite him back into your bed, with the rest of us?”

Every word strips Jaskier of more and more lucidity until he’s nothing more than a babbling mess. Geralt sets his teeth against the shell of his ear. “I’ll give him your regards when I go home. Will you be able to last without more than one of us here for that long, little bird? Eager little thing now that you’ve been let out of your cage. No point in trying to deny it, sweet thing; look at you. Enjoy it. Let everyone hear how much you’re free now.”

A delicious bend to Jaskier’s back, his white-knuckled grip on the railing, and his head tilted back. Geralt draws back just enough to watch the man’s body tighten and threaten to convulse as he comes, his lips stretched around a noiseless scream as he clenches around Geralt and trembles.

Geralt catches his waist, fingers digging into the soft give of his flesh as he snaps his hips. Eventually, the trembling wet heat around him is too much. He comes with a grunt, burying himself to the hilt, and floods the body beneath him. Jaskier whines, burying his head into the crook of his arm.

Geralt’s hold on him gentles, sure hands gathering him close and back against his chest, letting his head fall back on to his shoulder. Hazed and clouded eyes look at the sky stretched out above them. Geralt brushes his lips over Jaskier’s jaw, trailing along it until he can dust a few light kisses to behind the man’s ear. Jaskier shivers against him.

He’s too soft to stay inside of him, and both of them hiss out groans as Geralt slips out of him. But Jaskier doesn’t let him wander too far away. Numbed fingers curl against the arms gathered around him, and he’s a heavy and sure weight against his chest; if Geralt wasn’t holding and propping him up, Jaskier would have all but melted into the floor.

The rush of the ocean nearby comes back to them, but Jaskier’s laugh is fresh beside him. The man’s head rolls, his nose brushing Geralt’s as hooded eyes search his. “I’ll hold you to those promises, Mr Rivia,” he murmurs, lips soft and barely moving. He reaches up with a heavy arm, fingers catching Geralt’s chin. “Because if I find out that you’re lying to me, I’ll have you done away with. I have some excellent assassins in my employ now.”

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m sure they’ll do a fantastic job, Mr Pankratz.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter  
> @eyesupmarksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated x


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